


Carpe Noctem

by idiotbrothers



Category: Altered Carbon (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessions, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Introspection, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: Alternate ending to the first season. Kovacs and Ortega have a hard time letting go.





	Carpe Noctem

It was a new thing for Takeshi - experiencing this level of attachment to a sleeve.

Two days ago, Ryker had been spun up into a temporary sleeve to be retried for police brutality and prolonged tetrameth abuse while on duty. Takeshi had heard all about it from Ortega, who shakily informed him over ONI that there wasn’t the slightest chance of him ever returning to the BCPD, and that the remainder of his sentence would be served via community restitution under a year-long probation period. Ultimately, the guy was lucky they didn’t put him back on ice for a few more years.

Takeshi couldn’t tell whether he or Ortega was feeling more conflicted about the situation. After commandeering Ryker’s body for this long, Takeshi had acclimated to it so fully that it felt like his own. He’d catalogued all of Ryker’s little aches and pains; the twinge in his left shoulder, his incessant craving for nicotine, the scars that greeted his fingertips when he soaped himself up. His cropped hair, a rare breeze occasionally hitting the nape of his neck like it never did with his birth sleeve. The way Ortega touched him, looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Forlorn, like she was biding her time. It always made him crave a cigarette, his fingers twitching and his throat closing up for just a moment before he mentally pushed past it.

He’d never once in his life cared this much for an assigned sleeve. Of course, the many sleeves he’d needlecast into as an Envoy had meant infinitesimally little to him - they were mere puppets, tools to use and discard as he crossed worlds to pursue Quell’s vision. Ryker’s sleeve, for which Takeshi had developed a deep-seated instinct to preserve and protect, had started to mean something to him along the way. He wasn’t just safeguarding it for Ortega’s sake, anymore; he was safeguarding a part of _himself_. And the thought that he would be effectively losing that newly realized self to Ryker any day now made him... not angry, but almost morose. Something unpleasant, anyway.

“We’ll finally be rid of each other, huh,” Ortega said to him one night, about a week into Ryker’s probation. One of the conditions the court had imposed on Ryker was that he needed to earn his sleeve back as he reintegrated himself into society. The sooner he proved he could behave himself, the sooner he’d be back in his old skin.

Currently, Ortega was sitting in Takeshi’s lone armchair, legs crossed, gaze averted as she idly played with the hideous tasseled doily that was draped over the chair. Takeshi had moved into a different AI hotel after The Raven came under new ownership, a musty little establishment further downtown, whose owner took the shape of a doting old woman with a tower of crimped pink hair. Her name was Betsy and she had an unfortunate affinity for kitsch and taxidermy. 

Takeshi offered nothing in response to Ortega’s bleak statement, lit his third cigarette and scrolled through news headlines on his ONI, not processing any of it.

“Are you ignoring me, Kovacs?” 

Takeshi glanced at her face, noted the mild irritation that had taken root there. He flicked off his ONI display. “I have nothing productive to say,” he answered bluntly, exhaling smoke.

“Okay, well. Can you at least put that fuckin’ thing out? This place already reeks of tar and cat shit without you contributing to the fumes.” 

Takeshi shrugged and extinguished his cigarette on the decorative saucer on his nightstand. “Why’re you here, Kristen?” 

Ortega visibly cringed at the use of her first name, her hands curling into fists in her lap. Takeshi talked over her discomfort. “I’m pretty busy these days, need to get my money’s worth on this sleeve before I return it to your boyfriend. Gonna pump it full of merge9, hit the sex clubs around here. Y’know, one last hurrah. I’m sure he won’t mind.” 

Ortega rolled her eyes. “God, you’re so evasive. You’re even worse at this than I am.” 

_Worse at what?_

She changed the subject. “What’ve you been up to, really? I haven’t seen you around much since we arrested the Bancrofts.” 

Takeshi shrugged. “Do you _want_ me to go back to terrorizing Bay City’s finest? Didn’t think you missed me that much.” 

“Be serious, _carajo._ Tell me you’re not just rotting away in this shitty room until Elias gets resleeved.” 

Takeshi made a vague growling noise, annoyance kicking up in his chest. “‘Course not, wouldn’t want his body to get flabby.” 

“Kovacs!” 

“Jesus, alright. It’s none of your fuckin’ business, but if you must know, I’m looking for leads on Quell’s whereabouts.” 

Ortega nodded, her mouth tightening ever so slightly. “And you seriously think you’ll be able to find her.” 

“I do. If it takes me another 250 years, so be it. I’ve got time to spare.” 

“Not if you’re RD’ed by the legions of CTAC soldiers the Protectorate is gonna sic on you the minute they find out who you’re looking for.” 

Takeshi smiled wryly. “Such a romantic.” 

Without a single retaliatory word, Ortega hopped off the armchair and started to pace restlessly, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. 

“Ortega, c’mon, don’t overthink anything on my account. I know there’s no chance in hell Reileen didn’t have Quell’s DHF locked down so tight it’s gonna take a shitload of recon to even begin to unearth it.” 

“And that fucking _scares_ me, Kovacs. Your sister was...” She paused, presumably to censor herself. “She was prepared for everything. She had backup plans for her backup plans. This is practically a suicide mission.” 

“Yeah,” Takeshi scoffed, “Those are kind of my specialty.” 

“ _Que te den por culo_ ,” Ortega muttered. “I dunno how your stack has lasted this long, when you’re this much of a shortsighted idiot.” 

“Love conquers all,” Takeshi said, completely deadpan.

Ortega sighed gustily. “I need a goddamn drink.” 

“Bar’s only got Amaretto. But there’s this place across the street - "

“Okay, never mind that.” Ortega stopped pacing, went over to take a seat next to Takeshi on the bed, keeping a foot of space between them. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, staring at the worn floral carpet. 

Takeshi blinked, still a little taken aback by the notion that she could worry about his well-being, though common sense dictated that she should loathe him and everything he represented. “Would that make you feel better?”

“No,” she said tightly, “but I want you to say it anyway.” 

Takeshi huffed a frustrated laugh. “I really don’t understand you, you know that?” 

“The feeling’s mutual. Should go without saying.” 

“Whatever,” Takeshi mumbled, absently reaching a hand over his duvet and closing his fingers around her wrist. His fingertips traced over the barely discernible ring of raised artificial flesh that gave away her prosthetic arm. He felt her jolt a little at the touch, her eyes meeting his for a split second before she averted them. “I’ll be fine,” Takeshi told her. “I always am.” 

Her voice, when she spoke next, was incredibly quiet. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

Takeshi’s heart jumped. “What?” 

Ortega pulled her arm out of Takeshi’s loose grip, buried her face in her palms. “What the fuck am I saying.” 

“That’s my line,” Takeshi said, trying to disguise how rattled he was feeling. 

The awful stew of emotions that had been slow-cooking inside him for days now - perplexed longing, roiling guilt, jealousy, dejection - started to come to a boil. 

Ortega dropped her hands to her lap, tilting her head to the ceiling, which featured a projected image of giant white clouds moving across an unnaturally blue sky. “I think I’m all mixed up, Kovacs. Bancroft really got me good with - "

“Stop,” Takeshi blurted, cutting her off. It was weak of him, but he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want the reminder that, at the end of the day, any feelings she might have thought she had for him were misattributed, borne out of her enduring love for Ryker. 

“Hey, _pendejo_. Don’t sit there and make assumptions about how I feel.” 

“You’re painting a pretty clear picture,” Takeshi said, hand automatically finding the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “I don’t need to assume.” 

“Look at me,” she said. Reluctantly, he did. The expression on her face was difficult to read. 

“I’m gonna tell you something kinda fucked up.”

He nodded once, an indication that she should continue. 

“I... I think... " She stopped herself, swallowed. 

And then she reached out to touch his bare arm, the healed scar there.

“Kristen...” 

“Just,” she started meaninglessly, then touched the cut bisecting his eyebrow; his chest, where another scar hid beneath his shirt. 

“These are yours. There’ll be times when I look at him, and I see you instead. You wrote your name all over his sleeve.” 

“Kristen,” he said again, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to this. Choked frustration felt fitting. 

“Have you ever... appreciated the way someone _wears_ a sleeve?” 

Takeshi took a deep breath. “Under normal circumstances, sure. But this is far from normal.” 

“I love Elias,” she went on, twisting her hands in the hem of her shirt, “and I love... you. I love you wearing him.” 

Takeshi couldn’t keep himself from grimacing, his heart tied up in painful knots. 

“All that means is that you don’t actually love me, and never did. Which is for the best.” It really was. They had their own diverging paths to take. Takeshi needed to fully rededicate himself to Quell, now that he knew she was definitely alive somewhere in the universe, waiting to be awoken. The logicality of these thoughts didn’t stop his chest from aching like his sleeve was giving out on him. 

“Takeshi, I swear,” she said, seething, “you are the dumbest fucking person I’ve ever met. You don’t get it.” 

“ _What_ ,” Takeshi barked. 

“You... are self-sacrificial to a fault, and deeply empathetic under that shitty mask of aloofness, and pretty damn unintuitive sometimes, for an ex-Envoy. And as much as all that shit drives me crazy, it’s what makes you so... “ She trailed off yet again, apparently unable to finish that sentence. Her face was twisted with unease. 

“Well, don’t leave me guessing over here,” Takeshi snarked, though his genuine impatience had bled into his voice. 

“Shut up,” she said. “Just listen for a second. Elias and I, we’re taking a break. We talked about it, and there’s... so much ugly shit we have to untangle before we can think about maybe getting back together.” 

“Wait, seriously? You’ve been pining over his junkie ass for ages.”

Ortega frowned. “Yes, and we’ve mutually decided to do the healthy, adult thing and take some time to sort ourselves out. Y’know, instead of picking up the pieces of our broken relationship and trying to, like, jam them together too fast.” 

“That’s bullshit. All that fuckin’ matters is that you still love each other.” 

“Wow. You _are_ a romantic. I’m sorry, Kovacs, but you’ve got your head up your ass if you think that just waiting around for someone you loved in another lifetime is enough to guarantee you a perfect reunion with them.”

Anger rushed through Takeshi so quickly that he felt dizzy with it. “...You don’t know me, and you sure as fuck don’t know _her_ ,” Takeshi said slowly, shocked at Ortega’s audacity. She looked regretful, all of a sudden, her hands raised placatingly. 

“I’m... I’m sorry, Kovacs, I - " 

“Get out.” 

“I didn’t mean to - "

“Get _out_.” 

After a tense moment, she complied, swiping a hand over her face and exiting his hotel room without a backwards glance. 

As soon as she’d gone, Takeshi collapsed onto his bed, anger sluggishly cooling into a residual sludge that gummed up his thoughts of quests, and reunions, and above all else, Quell. Quell, who would have to learn that after Reileen mercilessly stamped out their revolution, destroying Quell’s sleeve in the process, Takeshi had almost immediately returned to a life of mindless violence, had been driven by nothing but greed and boredom. Any greater aspirations he once thought he had were just offshoots of his admiration for Quell. At the end of the day, Ortega was right. Nothing was guaranteed, and people’s feelings were fickle, changing with the wind.

“Betsy,” Takeshi shouted, summoning the elderly AI.

“How can I help you, sonny?” 

“What simulspace fantasies do you have on tap?”

“We offer a grand total of two different scenarios.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“One of them glitches out in the middle, so I would recommend the jungle scenario. Previous guests have quite enjoyed the virility of the big cats.”

“Oh, fuck me.” Takeshi dug the heel of his hand into his forehead, his eyes scrunched up. He couldn’t even try to indulge in some good old-fashioned escapism without the universe spitting in his face. He sat up on the bed and reached for his pack of cigarettes. 

* * *

 

When Takeshi next met up with Ortega, it was at her and Ryker’s place, and half a week had gone by.

“He says they’ll be resleeving him any day now,” Ortega was saying. “He’s doing so good.” There was a proud gleam in her eye that Takeshi couldn’t help but resent a little.

“So this is a goodbye drink, then,” Takeshi said, tipping his glass at her. She scrunched up her nose. “It’s a, _we left things in a bad place and I needed to fix that_ , drink. Besides... why do you always talk like you’re leaving the second you give him back his sleeve?” 

“It’s the truth,” Takeshi shrugged. “There’s nothing for me here. I’ve got shit to do off-world.” 

She was giving him a sad look now, for some reason. “You could’ve dumped the sleeve and left whenever you wanted. But you’re waiting it out with me. Is it so crazy to think that you could maybe stick around a little longer, after?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Takeshi said gruffly, running a hand through his hair. He paused, cleared his throat, then spoke again. “So are you guys living together here? Thought you said you were _taking a break_.”

The abrupt tangent was meant to distract both Ortega and himself from pursuing her line of questioning any further. This clearly wasn’t lost on Ortega, who narrowed her eyes at him. “I moved in here after I left my old place. Elias has his own apartment.” 

Takeshi grunted in acknowledgement, and Ortega, stubborn as always, said, “Why isn’t it a good idea?” 

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” 

“What the hell are you so afraid of?” 

“I’m not afraid of shit.” Takeshi set his glass on the table down hard, ice cubes rattling. 

Her eyes, when he met them, were blazing with something indiscernible. Takeshi scoffed to himself. “We’re wasting each other’s time here, Ortega. You’re confused, like you were saying before. You miss all of Ryker, as you knew him. Mind and body. I’ve been... a crutch, to you. But you’re getting the real thing back soon.”

She had started to shake her head. “That’s not - " 

“C’mon. It’s okay, I get it. I’ve been fucking with your head, hanging around like I have, when you need to focus on your relationship with him. And I...” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I’ve been weak. I... didn’t want to leave right away. I guess you could say I got attached. Some fuckin’ Envoy, huh?” 

Uncharacteristically, she said nothing, staring up at him blankly. He laughed once, without mirth. “I’ll go to Psychasec first thing tomorrow.” 

She stopped him before he could get up, hands covering his. “First, let’s talk in Virtual. If I can’t tell you, I’ll show you.” 

“Ominous,” Takeshi muttered, but reluctantly agreed to accompany her to the nearby VR arcade, which, thankfully, supported hi-res.

They paid the unreasonably high price, hooked themselves up, and entered the construct together without delay. Takeshi looked down at himself, flexed his hands, cast a glance around at the uninterrupted space they’d landed in. There was some fuzziness in his peripheral vision, and a disembodied ceiling above, where there should have been a void, but otherwise it wasn’t too buggy.

“This is grim,” Ortega said, “Let’s make it an actual room.”

Takeshi molded the construct in seconds, the space around them shifting into a small, unfurnished, and unwelcoming room. 

“Ugh,” Ortega said, and focused silently for half a minute, adding two curtained windows that each let in a crack of blinding sunlight. Thirty seconds more, and she added a blue couch. 

“We might as well have done this in my hotel room.” 

Ortega took a seat on the couch, gesturing for him to join her. “First of all, you don’t even know why we’re here right now, and second, your hotel room is horrible. Those fucking mounted animal heads...” She shuddered. 

Takeshi conceded both points with a nod. “So enlighten me, Ortega. What are we doing here?”

Ortega pulled a compact mirror out of the air and handed it to him, saying, “You’re using Elias’s likeness for this, like I thought you would. Why do you think that is?” 

Takeshi looked at his... at _Ryker’s_ scarred face in the mirror, frowning back at him. “It’s just a sleeve,” he said slowly. “I think you’re reading too much into this.” 

She shook her head. “As an Envoy, you should be way more evolved than most Grounders, and even most Meths, when it comes to mind-body interaction. Sleeves are just vehicles, right? Your entire identity is in your DHF? But you... you don’t feel that way right now, do you.” 

Takeshi winced. She was right, of course; Ryker’s sleeve had become involuntarily connected to his self-image. The fact that he was using Ryker’s appearance in VR clearly wasn’t just his subconscious catering to Ortega’s preferences, because he’d done so back at the Wei Clinic as well. But Ortega didn’t know that.

Takeshi affected a nonchalant tone when he finally answered her. “I thought you’d be most comfortable with this version of me. If you don’t care, though...”

He shut his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, glancing into the mirror once more, he was wearing his birth sleeve. It was somewhat jarring, associating that face with himself after such a long time. Takeshi recognized that if this was happening in the Real, if he was miraculously returned to his original sleeve, it would feel so _right_ that his attachment to Ryker’s sleeve would be forgotten in an instant. It was useless to dwell on such impossibilities, however. 

“I like this version of you, too,” Ortega said, breaking his train of thought. 

“If you say so,” Takeshi said, blatantly dismissive. She’d never met this version of him, unless you counted the juiced-up, bloodthirsty clone that hadn’t survived that night at the Fight Dome. Which Takeshi didn’t.

Before he could further express his skepticism, Ortega leaned across the couch, cupped the back of his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. Despite himself, Takeshi reciprocated immediately, kissing her back with as much fervor as he could muster.

When they broke apart, Takeshi regarded her quizzically, wishing he knew what she was thinking. “Why...?” 

“I’m _showing_ you, like I said.” She smiled, fingers threading through the ends of his hair. “The long hair suits you.”

Takeshi remembered Reileen’s assessment of Ryker - a _gaijin_ with bad hair - and suppressed a laugh, contradictory feelings cutting through him.

“What’s so funny?”

Ortega’s face was still bright, and open, and Takeshi didn’t want to ruin that by bringing up his late sister.

“Nothing,” he said, and kissed her again, slipping his hands under her shirt to bracket her bare waist, as the couch shifted into a bed around them. Takeshi pressed Ortega into the mattress, their kisses becoming more and more heated as Ortega trailed a hand down his chest, reached between his legs.

“Wait,” Takeshi said abruptly, wrenching himself away from her, breaths coming out in short bursts. 

“Fuck... _Ahora que_?”

Takeshi brushed her hair out of her face, his thumb lingering for a second on her left cheek. “I have no idea what it is you’re showing me,” he said. 

“Unbelievable,” she huffed, her eyebrows drawing together. “You’re really gonna make me spell it out for you. Okay, then.” 

Takeshi waited a beat, watching the uncertainty creep onto her face before she softly said, “I like you for you. The sleeve is secondary.” 

Takeshi traced her bottom lip with his index finger. “You said... you liked me _wearing_ him.” 

She exhaled shakily. “I did. I do.” 

_But?_  

“...But that’s mainly because...” She stopped, pulled a face. “Don’t make me say it, asshole.” 

Takeshi kissed her flushed face, grinned when she turned her head into the pillow. “Help me out here, Kristen. Still don’t know where you’re going with this.” 

“I hate you,” Ortega said, before adding in a frantic rush, “and for some goddamned reason, I’m so obsessed with you that you could make _any_ fuckin’ sleeve more attractive to me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassment radiating off her. “There. You happy?” 

Takeshi _was_ happy. He felt buoyant and giddy and like the dumb fucking kid he’d never been, almost lightheaded with emotion. He was frozen in place, but his feelings were leaking into the construct without his permission - curtains drooping off the windows to allow golden afternoon light to bathe the inside of the room; strings of huge, lilac-colored bubbles dancing around the bed; the walls pulsing like a heartbeat.

Ortega opened her eyes when a bubble popped against her nose, her mouth dropping open with surprise. “Oh,” she breathed, taking in the spectacle. “You’re the biggest sap in the world, Takeshi.” 

He kissed her deeply, the room melting away until it was just the two of them, stripped of physical and emotional restraints, telling each other everything they couldn’t express with words. 

* * *

 

“So Ryker messaged me, said he’s officially getting his sleeve back in two days.” 

“Good for him.” 

“...” 

“Hey, I meant that genuinely! He’s earned it by now.” 

“What planet are you headed to, once you’ve been resleeved? Y’know, first stop on your Quell Quest.” 

“Don’t call it that.” 

“Geez, Tak, lighten up.” 

“ _Anyway_. I’m... not planning on blasting off just yet. This shithole city needs me right now, and - okay, stop giving me that _look_. Seriously, stop.”

“All I’m gonna say is, this is pretty out-of-character for you.” 

“Well, don’t get too excited. I’m only hanging around for long enough to acclimate to the new sleeve, and then I’m getting the fuck outta here.”

“Alright.” 

“I’m not kidding, Kristen.” 

“ _Sí, sí, comprendo_." 

“Besides, you’re never gonna make this big drug bust without me.” 

“Uh-huh. You planning on coming back to visit, or is Bay City too slummy for an intergalactic knight?” 

“...It’d probably be more efficient for me to have a home base, so- Okay, can you not... can you not laugh?” 

“Sorry, I’m just... really glad.” 

“You’re lucky I’m so patient.” 

“I’m gonna tear my stitches if you keep that up, I swear.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I need to run back to the hotel anyway, just remembered I left my microwire in my room.” 

“Okay, see you soon. I love you.”

“Love you too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) For a minute while I was writing this I forgot that Quell's full first name is Quellcrist and not Quellcrest, and was honestly kinda disappointed because that "Quell Quest" bit is just boring alliteration now. 
> 
> 2) I'm very insecure about my writing and suck at summaries, but hopefully a few of you read and enjoy this. 
> 
> 3) I really loved Joel Kinnaman as Kovacs and kinda can't imagine the show without him, so curious about what they'll do with Season 2. Anthony Mackie is great though, so I'm keeping an open mind! I just got attached to Kinnaman's Kovacs and his and Ortega's relationship, hence this fic.


End file.
